hold on to this lullaby
by The Girl on Fiendfyre
Summary: "I could have loved you, you know? If you had given me half a chance."


**AN: So, as always, I wrote a one-shot instead of updating Heartlines. CHAPTER STORIES ARE HARD OKAY. Also, college applications are due soon- and I just don't have the mental capacity to further a story line. So in the mean time, I give you my adaptation of the old stand-by- Clove's death scene. Yes, I know it's overdone, and completely disregards Heartlines. But I have some references to it! Or at least to Clove's history. So read it, and if you haven't read my chapter fic, check it out! AND DEFINITELY REVIEW. REVIEWS ARE LOVE.**

**I tried to focus on the uncertainty brought on by death, and tried to keep the romance stuff understated. It's definitely there, but as much as I love Clato, I feel like that there other things Clove would also think about while she dies. Also, writing is a bit disjointed and hyphens are used liberally because I like it like that. Hope you enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: Obviously not Suzanne Collins, guys. **

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-hold on to this lullaby-

.

Right before the light leaves your eyes, and the pain takes over, you hear a thump to your left, the sound of a body crashing to the ground. Is this what dying is like? Do you watch yourself die?

But no, it's Cato.

And that fact alone is enough for you to try to stay awake. He_ came_.

Or maybe you're dead. Either way, you're glad that he's here.

"Clove," he croaks; a stunned, broken syllable. Your eyes drift over to his face. He is caught between denial and realization- you can see the horror bleeding onto his face.

Then, "Stay with me, Enobaria will send medicine. We have plenty of sponsors, they can fix you up. Just don't go- we're so close, Clove- don't do this to me!"

He is practically shrieking by the end, and for once Cato doesn't look like a man at all, but rather, a small boy. He is quiet for a while, and the silence is so peaceful- this would be as good time as any to drift away- can dying people pick the specific moment they die? You close your eyes, try to feel buoyant or angelic or something-

"Don't leave, Clove, please," Your eyes flutter open again, because Cato hardly ever says please. And because you're scared, and you're not sure you want to leave- but then there's the cold hard truth, and it's that this is all inevitable and out of your control now.

Cato is leaning over you, and he brushes his lips against your hair. You wish that he had kissed you on the lips, kissed you harder, kissed you like you weren't already dead. But even that slightest of movement jarred you so that you almost miss what he says next.

"I could have loved you, you know? If you had given me half a chance." And ironically, this must be what dying _really_ feels like- all regret and impossibility and past tense.

You're dead, you must be. This can't possibly be Cato. The Cato you know, the Cato that was possibly your best friend has always been obnoxious and crass. No, this is not your Cato- you must be hallucinating, or dead.

This can't be Cato.

Yet, something tells you this _is _Cato, that you're not dead yet. Because you have always mattered to him, haven't you? And you ignored it, just like you ignored the fact that Cato matters to you. -And leave it to Cato to make it _that much _harder for you to leave. To try to manipulate you into somehow staying. Yes, that sounds exactly like him.

Everything hurts- your body, your head, your heart- so it must be real. The way he is clinging to your hand, trying to shake you awake hurts far too much for you to be dead.

Unless, when you die, you stay in your body for a while? Oh, you don't know. You don't know everything, and you don't have all the answers- It takes death for you to realize that you are only a child, and you don't know much of anything.

But this is what you know, what you're sure of- you had never been truly afraid with Cato by your side. And that you would have loved him too- if…if you weren't going to die.

What you're worried about, is what comes next. Because Cato won't be with you, and no one's really lived to tell the tale, have they? (If you weren't dying, you would have laughed.) So you try your hardest to remember things, so you can take them with you- is that how this works?

You remember the glint of your knives, the shadows of the rocky gorge, and the taste of tea from District Two. And you remember your long dead father, your distant victor of a mother, Lyme, Tara- mostly because you feel like you ought to, and Cato. Cato's eyes and his smile and the furrow of his brow. And as he crouches next to you, inconsolable, you imagine him as victor- and figure it's as good a dying wish as any.

You muster up the final bits of energy- this is very likely the last thing you will ever do. Final words are meant to be epic and profound and memorable, but all that comes out is, "Don't cry,"- possibly accompanied by a hand-squeeze. It could be a plead, an order, an I-love-you - and he will never know, because you-

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**Let's all take a moment to appreciate that Clove's dying wish was for Cato to win. **

**Review and feedback are greatly appreciated, and failure to review is punishable by death. **


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